


After The Silent Treatment

by psychicdreams



Series: Treatment Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back and John finally starts talking to him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU-ish. Everything as normal, set after Season 3’s episode one, except John didn’t meet Mary.

“So…did you really love Irene Adler?” John watched as Sherlock’s head lifted from the newspaper and it was a testament to how long he’d known the man that he could see the pure confusion in his face. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the question or the fact that he’d spoken to him at all.

It had been six months since Sherlock had been back after his two years on ‘holiday’. The atmosphere in the Baker’s Street apartment had been tense ever since because John hadn’t quite forgiven Sherlock from never once sending him a text or a word to let him know he was alive. Even worse, it felt as if he was the only one out of the loop. Mycroft had known, Sherlock’s family had known, Molly had known… He felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Sherlock was his best friend, the one he cared for most in the entire world, and he’d been the only one that hadn’t known.

“So are we speaking now?”

John played with the cup of tea he had in his hands and met those silvery eyes with just a hint of blue in them. It had taken more effort than he’d imagined it would to remain in that flat for two years, but Mycroft had told him that it had been Sherlock’s wish…and that the man had a trust fund paying for it regardless. He’d thought so many times that he should move out, move on, and felt like such an idiot even more when Sherlock was alive. He’d wanted John to stay because he’d anticipated coming back and wanted his blogger there, ready for his return.

“I’m attempting to make conversation, but if you’d rather we go back to the silent treatment…”

“No,” was the almost too quick reply, followed by a slightly calmer repeat of the word, eyes going back to the page he’d been reading. “No.”

“So then…did you really love her?”

“What makes you think that I did?”

He shrugged, sitting down in ‘his’ armchair across from the sofa where Sherlock was at. “Just the way you acted, that’s all. It’s been something I’ve wondered about.” Before his partner could answer though, John shook his head. “Probably not, though. You were the one that said you were married to your work.”

There was almost a suspicious silence as Sherlock gave him a probing look. “Do you really believe that?”

“Do I really believe what?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but the ringing of John’s mobile interrupted him and he dug it out of his pocket. A heavy frown touched his face and he set down his tea, standing up and heading into the kitchen. “What do you want?” he muttered, trying to keep his voice low so that Sherlock didn’t overhear.

“Is that any way to talk to your big sister?”

“Harry…”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “You were the one that said that you were going to clean up your act and you begged me for money and I found that you’d spent it all on—”

“I didn’t spend it all on that,” she interrupted. “I actually used a lot of it to keep myself afloat. I would have lost the flat without it, so it’s not like I don’t appreciate it, John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing over his shoulder, but Sherlock hadn’t moved and seemed not to be paying a lick of attention. “You didn’t call to argue with me, Harry. What do you want?”

There was a pause on the other end. “I was wondering how you were getting on. I’ve read he’s back.”

“He was back _six months ago._ ” Yet rather than hold Harry up even more at her general inability to pay attention to something other than herself, he continued on. “We’re fine.” It was most definitely not true. He was in no way fine with any of this. Sherlock waltzing back in like he deserved a place in John’s life after what he’d done; realizing in those two years that maybe his feelings were not as platonic as he’d thought they were; this strange limbo that they were in right then where he wanted to completely forgive and yet found a part of himself resentful still.

“So are you going to be continuing your little crime-fighting side job?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Harry, and I’d thank you to keep your nose out of it for right now.”

“Fine, fine.” There was the sound of someone calling Harry’s name and she abruptly said, “Got to pop out for a bit. Talk to you later, John.”

“Yes, talk—” A dial tone hit his ears and he sighed. “…later.”

When he dropped back in his chair, Sherlock said, “That hasn’t changed.”

“No, it hasn’t.” After a minute, John straightened from his chair. “Look, Sherlock, if this is going to work, there’s something that has to be out there first. Things are…different now.”

“Yes they are. You have more gray in your hair now.”

“Sherlock!”

With a sigh of petulance, Sherlock closed the newspaper and folded it, tossing it on the nearby desk. “Fine, say your peace.”

John was about to demand a serious apology…but stopped just seconds before the words slipped out. Sherlock had come as close to one of those as possible the night he’d returned. It had been defensive and reluctant, Sherlock not appreciating being forced to say it, but given that he was not the type to apologize ever, it was probably the best John was going to get. “You know what? Never mind.”

“Oh, you’re not going to go back to the silent treatment again, are you?”

“I will if you keep whining.”

Sherlock pouted at him, as close as the man could get to that expression anyway, and shrugged. He surged out of his chair and began to pace. By the very way he held himself, John knew that he wanted a case and wanted one bad. “Still no girlfriend, John?”

“I don’t even need to ask how you know that,” he muttered. His love life had been dead for two years. He’d been so busy grieving over Sherlock, feeling like he was the only one that believed in him, and between that and his feelings…he’d just felt no desire to find himself a girlfriend. Maybe if Sherlock hadn’t come back, he could move on in another six months, consider it…but now his attention was back on the detective like someone had super-glued it to him. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

“I believe I once explained how dangerous ‘love’ is. It’s a trap, a quagmire, and people rarely behave rationally once it’s in their head. It causes uncontrollable bouts of jealousy and even the most level-headed people can’t see straight.” Slowly Sherlock was walking around his chair, staring at him, and John stared right back, masking his feelings so the man wouldn’t know. It felt as if the detective was talking about _him_ , though that seemed impossible. How could Sherlock know of his feelings when he hadn’t until a year ago?

“She was a cunning woman and connected to Moriarty. Do you believe that I would let myself lose my head over her?”

“Nope,” he told him promptly. “But Sherlock, love doesn’t listen to your head. It happens, whether you want it to or not half the time.”

“So you _do_ believe that I loved her.”

John shifted in his seat just by the slightest bit as he fought a wave of jealousy at the thought of Sherlock and Irene Adler together. “Like I know what goes on in your head.”

Sherlock looked at him almost pityingly. “It must be so wonderful to be so dull.”

“Sherlock,” he growled warningly.

“How long have you known me, John?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“Including the two years you spent ignoring me, I’d say four.”

“I didn’t do it to ignore you, I had no choice. If I hadn’t—”

“Yes, yes, I’d have given you away,” he spat, still angered at that sore spot being prodded. He could keep a secret!

“You’re an open book, John. You couldn’t have kept it a secret. Anyone just glancing at you would be able to tell.”

He turned and glared, shifting as he watched the detective still slowly stalking around the chair in a circle. “If it came to your safety, I could!”

“Don’t misunderstand. Your intentions would be obviously to keep it a secret, but anyone just looking at you could tell.” Sherlock stopped in front of him, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, and he looked out the window. “Just like I can see the fact that despite your attempt to hide it, you’re in love with me.”

John stiffened until it felt he was made of ice. He should have known better than to expect he could hide it from _Sherlock_ of all people. This time his voice was soft and quiet though, not at all like it had been when he’d announced Molly’s affections for him by analyzing his Christmas present. Sherlock was at least aware that what he was saying would be awkward for them and wasn’t rubbing his deductions in his face.

He cleared his throat the way he did when he felt awkward and was trying to figure out the right words for what he wanted to say. A blue-gray eye shifted to look at him and he tried to shrug casually. “You’re right, as usual,” he said, wishing it didn’t feel as if he had a stone in his throat. Sherlock looked at him fully, tilting his head silently. “There’s no point in denying it, Sherlock. It’s a fact. I realized what I felt a year ago and I haven’t forgotten what you said when we first met, either. You’ve likely figured out that I was jealous as hell of Irene Adler, though at the time I didn’t know why.” John blessed his soldier background that allowed him to cross his arms and meet that silent stare evenly.

“…That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t people normally…want something after that?”

“Sherlock,” he said, not annoyed at the question because he honestly didn’t believe the man understood the impact of what had just happened, “we’re not most people. You’re not interested and I know that; right now, I’m just glad you’re alive. I’m glad I have the person I care most about in the world alive. That’s more than enough for me.”

John stood up and headed into the kitchen, missing the complicated look that flashed across Sherlock’s face.

\--

“Well it was about time.”

“What are you on about now, Mycroft?” Sherlock spat, twanging the strings of his violin and glaring balefully through his lashes at his brother sitting in John’s chair. The doctor was at work at the moment, leaving him alone and if that hadn’t been bad enough, dealing with Mycroft was only an added layer of unpleasantness.

“John Watson. Did he tell you, or did you tell him?”

He flicked his gaze down to his violin, but didn’t play it. Though he didn’t want to, this time he might actually need Mycroft’s…opinion. Sherlock had never been in any relationship before, though he knew the basics. Yet once again, like no other, John Watson had threw him for a loop. He’d boldly looked up at him and agreed with his deductions. No blush, no stammering, no attempted denial. That had been unexpected enough, but that he didn’t even ask for anything. He merely acknowledged the truth and left it at that.

So what did he do? He knew that now it was his turn, but he wasn’t sure what that was in this social dance. His words from what felt like a lifetime ago in Angelo’s were still there, lying between them. John hadn’t forgotten them. Yet it was a tad perturbing that he was considering whether that long ago statement was still accurate after all this time. He knew that less intelligent people, like most of the population on the planet, would say that his possessiveness of John was a high indicator that he ‘returned the feelings’, but was that true? He was possessive of the doctor, yes, without a doubt, but then he had always been so over things he’d liked ever since he was a child.

“How long have you known?”

“About his feelings? Long before he figured it out himself,” was that superior voice that always managed to grate on his nerves. Yet, just trying to imagine a world without Mycroft annoying him was almost impossible. “However, I also know that nothing came of the admission to you because he was walking correctly this morning. Something—”

“I know how it works,” Sherlock spat and interrupted whatever cutting remark Mycroft had been about to say.

Despite the patented disbelief on his brother’s face, done purely to annoy Sherlock he was sure, Mycroft only continued on. “So what are you planning on doing about it?”

“Doing about it?” he repeated, as if that was the most ridiculous thing in the world that he’d ever heard. “Why should I do anything about it? He merely acknowledged that I was right and that was it. What need is there to do anything about?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Because, Sherlock, no matter how many times I tell you not to get involved, you inevitably will. As your brother, I thought—”

“There’s the problem right there,” he said snidely.

“Sherlock,” came the exasperated sigh.

“Are you really attempting to bore me to death, Mycroft?”

“Sherlock!” The sharp word made him blink and look up. Very rarely did Mycroft raise his voice like that and only when he was feeling particularly frustrated. “I’m growing tired of your inconsistent behavior.”

“Inconsistent?” he repeated, both outraged and stunned at the statement. “What have I done that has been inconsistent in any way?!”

Mycroft stood up with irritated eyes. “You figure it out. You’re the ‘genius’, aren’t you? I knew ages ago.”

There was nothing Sherlock hated more than that supercilious behavior and he hated being shown up in general, but no one burned him more in that regard than Mycroft. He would find out what Mycroft thought he saw, if it killed him.

\--

When John walked in, he knew that something must have happened. The atmosphere in the flat was all but electrically charged and he cautiously entered, spotting Sherlock with a blow torch and an eyeball in the kitchen. “…Was Mycroft here today?” he asked cautiously.

“What gave you that impression?”

“The fact that you look like you’re going to go on a killing spree?” he replied calmly and dropped his keys on the nearby counter.

“Yes, he was here, that insufferable—”

“Did he have a case?” John interrupted before Sherlock could go on a tirade.

“No and even if he did, I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Uh huh.” Deciding not to comment, particularly with the burning blow torch in Sherlock’s hand, he shrugged out of his coat. He could feel those piercing eyes on his back as he did so, knowing that he was being analyzed. “Are you working on a case now?”

“No.” There was a pause. “John…”

“Just going to pop into the shower,” he replied, deliberately not turning around to look and heading down to the bathroom. He didn’t want to know what Sherlock was going to say, didn’t want to know if the man might ask him to leave now. With a mental sigh, he was content to avoid the issue that lay between them for as long as Sherlock let him. It had taken more courage than he thought he’d possessed to agree with the detective, to let his feelings out verbally for the first time since he’d realized them.

As he turned on the shower to let the water warm up, he undressed. As he reached the final button on his shirt, the door flung open. “John—”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he spat, almost jumping in shock as the doorknob hit the bathroom wall. It sounded so much louder in the small, tiled room than it would have anywhere else. “What the hell do you want?! You don’t just walk into the bathroom when I’m about to take a shower!”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “You left before I finished speaking. What else was I supposed to do?”

Now he was being deliberately obtuse. “Wait until I’m out!”

“Takes too long. You’ll be in there for at least an hour today. Bad day at work?”

John rubbed his face with a sigh, his heartbeat finally calming down to a bearable level, only to rise again as he began to notice details: they were both in the bathroom and he was at least half undressed. He really shouldn’t be so fussed about it, but it wasn’t the same as before. “Fine, Sherlock. What did you want to say?”

“About what you said before…”

Here it comes, he thought and forced his eyes to calmly meet Sherlock’s. They seemed to study him for a moment. “What about it?”

“You’re not all right with it.”

“About what?”

“Remaining as we have been.”

He rubbed his eyes as the mirror slowly began to fog up. “Can’t we do this later, Sherlock? We’re wasting hot water.” He deliberately turned his back on his flatmate, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Part of him seriously considered diving into the shower with clothes on if it got Sherlock to leave.

There was the sound of a door closing and he glanced over his shoulder. He was alone and he sighed, quickly stripping before he lost the opportunity. The hot water felt good on his tense muscles and he ducked his head under the spray. He could still remember his meeting with a young teenage girl that had ‘bulimic’ written all over here and he knew that no matter what he said, his advice wouldn’t stick.

John blinked as he heard in the silence the bathroom door open. “Sherlock?” There was no answer, but he could hear shifting on the other side of the curtain. Just as he was about to draw it back to peek around the edge, it was all but thrown open with the same dramatic flair that Sherlock gave to his dressing gown. His jaw dropped as he took in the sight of creamy and very naked skin. Without pause, suddenly he wasn’t alone in the shower, the curtain smoothly being pulled back into place with the same motion. “What _the hell_ do you think you’re doing?!” he demanded, shocked that his voice seemed to almost crack at the high pitch. “What the hell is in your head, Sherlock?!”

“You,” was the prompt reply and somehow it silenced him like nothing ever could. Much like when he’d boldly admitted his feelings, this was said without reservations at all. A long, thin arm wrapped around his waist and John found himself being tugged forward until their chests were touching.

“Sherlock, look,” he muttered, feeling their hips touching and damned his immensely raised heartbeat. He looked up, seeing the water streaming down Sherlock’s curls and flattening them against his head. Then all he could see were those beautiful blue-gray eyes and that they were getting remarkably closer. Their lips touched softly at first, Sherlock taking his damn time about it. He seemed determined to memorize every little dip and nook on his mouth, with a thoroughness to be envied if it was applied elsewhere.

When their first kiss ended as gradually as it started, John let out a shaky breath. That had been almost a religious experience. And damn Sherlock for smirking at him like that and was that a hand that just gripped his rear?! “Sherlock—”

“I know what I’m doing, John, and I don’t mean physically, so don’t ask.”

He gave his friend a skeptical look, but Sherlock was looking both stubborn and sincere. “I thought you were married to your work. Are you planning on divorcing it?”

“God no…but I think I can live with two wives.”

John rolled his eyes despite his smile. “Try boyfriend.”

“What, you won’t marry me? When I got Mycroft to legalize it? He’ll be insufferable for weeks now,” Sherlock joked with that grin he couldn’t say no to.

He found himself laughing with Sherlock, resting his forehead against a thin shoulder. Speaking of that… With a sudden sense of dread, he looked around the room warily. “You don’t think…he’s bugged this room, do you?”

“Let him watch,” Sherlock replied, kissing his neck down to his shoulder and the hand on his rear shifting a little more intimately, fingers exploring.

“Sherlock, I am not putting on a show for your brother!” he protested, but it came out a bit breathier than he intended it to as his knees grew a tad weak.

“You’re not,” was the reply, almost vibrating against his neck. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

Before John could argue some more, he felt a hand grip him lightly between his legs and he let out a soft shout. This time his knees did almost buckle and he felt Sherlock brace him against the wall. Suddenly if there was surveillance on them, he didn’t care. Sherlock’s intent explorations were giving way to passion. He was all but devouring his mouth now. Moaning against that limber tongue, John reached and found an answering hardness in front of him. “I love you, Sherlock,” he muttered as they were forced to break for some air.

In truth, he fully expected Sherlock to tell him how stupid and dangerous love was, but instead their foreheads touched. “…I know. I hope my actions…have conveyed my response.”

“Crystal clear,” he moaned and gasped when fingers found what they were looking for. “Sh-Sherlock! Wait, I’m… I’m on the bottom?”

“Of course.” Sherlock blinked at him, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world and somehow it sent John laughing almost hysterically. He didn’t know why, maybe he was just relieved that not only were his fears of being asked to leave unfounded, but that it had turned into something a lot more. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Sherlock’s finger invaded him, curiously exploring, and he shouted in surprise. “You…know how…this works, right?” Blue-gray eyes were narrowed at him at that question, a half-glare. “What?”

“Why does everyone stupidly assume that just because I haven’t done it before, I don’t know what I’m doing?” As if to punctuate his point, he turned his fingers in such a way that he deliberately touched John’s prostate and he had to bite his lip to remain silent.

“Wasn’t…meant…to be…an insult, Sherlock. Just…that…I only know…the basics.” The annoyance cleared from his friend’s face and suddenly their lips were nuzzling together, almost like an apology. Well, it was the best he’d ever get. “M-Mycroft…say something…to…you?”

“Stop…talking about him,” Sherlock muttered. “Or I’ll start to assume…that you’d rather it be him…doing this to you.”

Okay, now that image was just downright wrong, John thought as his mind helpfully conjured up the slightly taller brother in the shower with him and felt his stomach hit his feet. “Definitely…not.” He managed to get his shaking hand with some coordination in it and he began to stroke the man in front of him as he leaned up for another kiss. The water was going to grow cold soon, but he didn’t care. A second finger slid in and he moaned heavily as they began to thrust in time with his hand, but was it his imagination or did Sherlock look a tad…discomposed?

“John,” Sherlock moaned in his ear as he sped up his pace and his flatmate did the same to match. “Do…you like…it?”

“Thought…you knew everything…”

“Kind of…hard…to think…right now.” John would have laughed if he thought Sherlock wouldn’t take it the wrong way. So there was something that could short-circuit that usually infallible brain? “You…make it…hard to concentrate…”

“At least…it’s me…and not…just the sex.” He was getting close now and he gripped one of Sherlock’s arms with his free hand to steady himself.

“’Course…it’s…you.”

John’s eyes were soft, albeit hazy, on Sherlock. He knew that the man viewed his body as secondary to his mind. A relationship with the detective was much more mental than physical. No one would get anywhere with him with just physical lust. His fingers dove into those wet curls as he squeezed his hand around the man’s throbbing arousal, instinctively clamping around those fingers as he released fiercely. A tongue invaded his panting mouth as Sherlock came seconds later.

“I think I can see…the attraction…of doing it in the shower.”

He tried not to blush, at least too much, and cursed that Mrs. Hudson turned out to be right after all. He squirmed out of the arms that held him and hid a squeak as he stumbled when his knees didn’t want to support him after that. “If this was being recorded, you’ve got to get it from Mycroft.”

There was the sound of agreement from behind him, but it seemed absentminded, as if Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. “You’re not working tomorrow, are you, John?”

“No. Why?”

When he looked over his shoulder, Sherlock was smirking with unholy glee. “Good.” With economized movements, the shower was quickly turned off and an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him from the shower. “We’re going to continue this, and if you happen to ne unable to walk tomorrow, then so be it.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Worksafe

John made some attempt to squirm his wrist out of Sherlock’s grip, but it was like a vice. “Sherlock, we’re dripping water everywhere!” They were still quite nude and Sherlock was pulling him straight…to his bedroom. John had been in there often enough for various reasons, but somehow it didn’t seem as immense before as it did now.

“So?” Sherlock tugged him into the bedroom and closed the door before, before all but attacking John’s lips.

It seemed like such a simple action, but all it did was short-circuit his brain. He found himself kissing back just as passionately, one hand easing up to rub the back of his neck and the other around a slim waist. Their tongues touched and he brought his not inconsiderable talent onto that mouth, only noticing when their mouths abruptly broke apart that Sherlock had pushed them to the bed in that time. “Your bed is going to get wet,” he warned.

The tall detective eased him to lie on his back, following him, and he nipped at his ear. “Then we’ll actually sleep in yours.”

John laughed a little and it turned into a breathy moan as Sherlock intently kissed down from his ear to his neck. “Sherlock,” he groaned just as those lips found and nudged at his nipples. “You said…you never did this…before!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, leaving just a light bite behind to see his reaction. “Research.”

“You did not watch…gay porn for this…” At the man’s silence, he groaned at the occasional stupidity of such a smart man. “Sherlock, that—”

“Do you really think I’d choose such an inaccurate method as porn?”

“Then what—”

“Much as I love to explain things to you, stop asking questions and do shut up.” To accentuate his words, Sherlock’s slim and supple fingers stroked along his shaft.

Well that was one way to get what he wanted. John’s whole body seemed to tingle in pure desire and he gasped, arching just a little into the surprisingly soft touch. For a moment, the sensations of pleasure that Sherlock was giving him made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. He shook himself mentally, not willing to be a passive participant. He nudged his partner, rolling them over until the man was beneath him.

“What are you doing?”

“Just watch,” he told the skeptical, almost suspicious man. Despite not having done this before, John was determined and he kissed his way down a surprisingly toned stomach. By then understanding had crossed Sherlock’s face and if he wasn’t mistaken, did the man just squirm in anticipation? He only had one moment of hesitation before he brushed his lips over the engorged head of his partner and he heard an immediate groan.

Taking his time, he licked and cautiously tasted, inwardly smirking at the reaction he was getting out of Sherlock. It was one thing to know something mentally, but another to experience it. There were no smart comments or commentary, thankfully, and emboldened by the silence, he explored further. His fingers brushed along Sherlock’s sack and he had to lean back quickly as those hips shifted up into the touch.

“Stop teasing.”

John raised an eyebrow at the almost petulant complaint from a breathless Sherlock, but his mind just wasn’t wired for witty replies back in this situation, so instead he just leaned down and finally pulled the man’s arousal into his mouth. There was a reluctant groan above him, as if Sherlock was doing everything he could to make sure his sounds weren’t heard. Well that wouldn’t do at all. If Sherlock was going to encourage him to make noise, then it was only right that he do the same. So despite John’s inexperience in doing this with a man, he worked along that length with his tongue and focusing on all the sensitive spots his hands had found a few minutes ago in the shower.

“John… John!” His eyes flicked up and Sherlock made a vague gesture with his hand that he didn’t understand. After a second, his lover rolled his eyes. “Turn around.”

Despite taking a minute to consider it, he shifted his position, letting his rear face Sherlock and went back to what he was doing. The slim hands that touched his thighs was almost soothing in a way as they caressed, exploring with that same single-minded focus that he put into his cases. They stroked along his arousal, touching just a little harder in response to the pleasure that John gave him before easing up to his rear. In truth, he didn’t care what position he was in. He was completely unflustered about it, willing to go with whatever Sherlock wanted just because it didn’t matter to him so long as he had the man somehow.

Fingers pushed in and he moaned as Sherlock’s memory hadn’t failed him. They went right for his prostate and pressed hard. The pleasure rocketed through him and he whimpered around that hard length in his mouth. He lifted his head, looking over his shoulder, but before he could say a word, he saw Sherlock grab a bottle of lotion. “…How long have you been planning this?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

Sherlock coated his fingers in the lotion and replaced him, his fingers in a scissor-like motion to loosen him. “Since Mycroft left.”

“What…exactly…did he say to you?”

His lover growled instead of answering and slipped a third finger inside. A shiver went down John’s spine and licked at Sherlock’s tip again before Sherlock eased himself away. He looked over his shoulder, seeing his partner on his knees behind him. Carefully those fingers were thrusting in and out, a pale imitation to what would be happening in a few minutes. Seeing the question in his eyes, Sherlock leaned down and kissed his shoulder, seeming to grudgingly admit, “I can’t concentrate when you do that.”

“I thought,” John muttered as those fingers seemed intent to abuse his prostate, “that you could concentrate no matter what.”

“You’re a distraction!”

He hesitated, not sure if he should apologize for that. He knew how much Sherlock absolutely hated distractions and he was torn between feeling pleased that he alone made such an impact in his life and feeling guilty that he had. As if divining his thoughts, there was an elegant twist of Sherlock’s fingers and he shouted in pleasure. “Stop thinking, you’ll get yourself in trouble. You’re even more of a distraction if you’re not _here_.”

John couldn’t take much more, fingers gripping the sheets tightly and he muttered, “That’s…enough, Sherlock. I’m…ready.”

“No, you’re not. If I enter now, you’ll be in pain.”

“I’ll be in pain anyway, just do it!” he argued, desperately trying to convince his heated body to calm down a bit so he didn’t lose it early. He bit his lip and gave in, begging, “Please, I need it, Sherlock…”

There was a pause, fingers freezing. He could feel Sherlock staring at him and John didn’t have it in him to say it again. If he was going to try to make him… No, even Sherlock wasn’t that cruel and those fingers left him immediately. Thin, almost spindly arms, wrapped around his chest as his lover leaned down over his back. “No complaining later.”

“No complaining later,” he agreed.

It was only when Sherlock thrust in, in one smooth motion, that John cursed. Liar! Sherlock had not been as calm as he’d appeared; the detective would have broken just as quickly as he had, perhaps in the next moment, if he hadn’t started begging! There was pain yes, but he had endured far worse, and when Sherlock shifted and hit his prostate, the pangs were suddenly worth it.

Almost politely, there was no movement and he took what he had to get used to the sensation. This was his first time with a man and in some ways, it was just a little scary. This change in their relationship was completely unknown and he had absolutely no idea how they were going to fit the now-romantic part of their lives in with what had been before. On one hand, it was entirely natural, like breathing; just like an extension of how close they actually were. They had always been closer, more important, to each other than family or even lovers. Doing this physically was almost like an afterthought. Yet at the same time, it was frightening because John had never been good with relationships. Thanks to the very same thing that made this so natural was the very thing that had caused him to fail on almost all of his previous relationships in the past four years.

As if sensing the turmoil in his thoughts, Sherlock’s hand abruptly landed over his clenched one. John’s eyes slid open—when had they closed?—and stared before he shifted his. He let go of the sheet and turned his hand around until their palms met and he twined their fingers together slowly, giving Sherlock time to pull away if he didn’t like it. Sherlock didn’t. Instead, his elegant fingers closed with his and squeezed tightly. It was as good a declaration of love as John would ever get, because he knew the simple words of ‘I love you’ would never pass his partner’s lips.

Taking their hands as consent that it was all right, Sherlock began to move. He almost mourned the loss as he began to pull out, only to bite his lip when there was a slightly rough push in. It had probably taken all of Sherlock’s considerable control over himself to remain still. The slow movements gradually sped up and he finally let out a soft shout when his lover’s free hand slid sensually over his abdomen and down between his legs, lightly touching his arousal.

“Sher…lock,” he groaned and he could almost feel the smile, or smirk, behind him. Well, he wouldn’t quibble if this swelled Sherlock’s already massive ego.

His name was whispered right against his ear as the measured thrusts began to falter and speed up. John could sympathize because he didn’t know how much longer he could withhold his release if Sherlock kept abusing his prostate and stroking him. He rested his forehead against the bed, moaning as his nerves sung with pleasure. Though he hadn’t expected it, Sherlock was a surprisingly attentive lover, kissing along his shoulders and in his hair. Their entwined fingers never wavered.

“Sherlock…not…much longer,” he warned with a gasp.

“Yes,” was the hissed moan and suddenly he was gripping the bed and his lover’s hand fiercely as the dam broke and Sherlock took him roughly and quickly, no finesse, just seeking their climax. John did yell this time, much to his embarrassment, as his orgasm hit him. He spasmed in Sherlock’s hand and onto the sheets beneath him shuddering, and instinctively clenched fiercely around his lover. There was a silent grunt above him as Sherlock thrust in one last time and he felt wetness in a place he never had before.

Sherlock, in a rare display of decency, pulled them over to land on their sides so that John didn’t just fall forward into the wet spot he’d made. They were still connected and much to his surprise, he felt that elegant face nuzzling into the back of his neck. The only sound in the bedroom was their panting and he could feel the idle exploration that Sherlock’s hand was doing on his body.

His eyes shifted to their still combined fingers in front of him and he squeezed softly. There was a moment’s hesitation, pleasure no longer clouding Sherlock’s mind, but he returned the motion softly. He smiled and turned a little, enough to look at the man’s face. It was deceptively blank and with a rare moment of clarity, John realized that he was waiting, waiting to hear how he performed.

If he hadn’t known that Sherlock would take it badly, the opposite way he would intend it, he would have laughed at the silliness of even questioning it. “It…was fantastic, Sherlock,” he whispered. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

The blank look eased, the shutters on his eyes reopened. There was that same superior look on his face that everyone hated, as if to say ‘of course it was’, but John knew the truth: Sherlock had needed the reassurance. He had never realized just how much his opinion of his lover mattered to him and it made his heart so happy it could burst. Irene Adler might have been a fascination on Sherlock’s part, but he knew that he had captured something that no one else in the world could: Sherlock’s heart.

“What stupid thing are you thinking now?” Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes.

“Since you’d just scoff at me, I’m not going to tell you,” John replied with a smile.

Sherlock’s lips twisted and he moved his hips without warning, earning a shocked but pleased gasp. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“I can make you.”

“No you can’t,” he said, finally letting out a laugh. In revenge, that free hand gripped his hip, holding him still, and he made a deliberate motion with his hips that caused John to moan softly. “Still…not…telling.”

“Then I think it’s time for an interrogation,” Sherlock whispered right in his ear. “If it takes all night, then so be it.”

“You have to sleep…at some point,” he argued.

“Says who?”

He blinked, a sixth sense like a deer had when it knew it was in the crosshairs. “Sherlock…what are you doing?” he asked as he felt the man pull out. Their hands slipped apart as the detective eased him onto his back and spread his legs.

“There will be no sleep for you tonight, John Watson.”

Seeing that insufferable smile, John shuddered with both anticipation and dread.

\--

“So where’s John?”

Sherlock looked up from his newspaper at Lestrade. It was noon by now and he could see why someone might make the observation because John was always up just after dawn. Sherlock had assured that wouldn’t happen because he hadn’t let his lover sleep until the sun had just started to rise and while he would never admit it aloud, he did think that perhaps he had overdid it. His thighs were still protesting all the activity from yesterday, yet he found himself remarkably relaxed, enough that he lounged bonelessly on the sofa instead of pacing for a case.

“Still sleeping, I expect,” he said, only to lift his head a little when he heard movement from his bedroom. He frowned and stood up. “Stay here.”

“What—I’m not a dog, Sherlock!”

Sherlock ignored the comment and headed to his room to find John standing, but he had to hold onto the headboard to do it. “What are you doing?” he asked, not bothering to close the door. It wasn’t as if Lestrade could see anything and trying to ignore a sudden thought of ‘like hell would Sherlock ever allow anyone to even glance at _his_ naked partner’.

“What does it look like?”

“I’m surprised you can even sit up, much less stand,” he admitted.

“Well that was certainly your intent last night. Too bad for you I’m used to dealing with pain.”

Sherlock frowned at that. Yes, he had let John talk him into entering early when he hadn’t been sure that he was completely prepared, and yes, maybe his passions had been a little too much to continue all night. John glanced up at him and smiled, reaching over and grabbing his dressing gown, pulling him closer.

“Don’t look like that, I loved it.” Their lips met in a kiss and he would be damned before he admitted that that simple action was so soothing for his worries. His arms immediately wrapped around John as he shifted his head into the kiss, tongue sliding in and plundering that hot mouth of its riches. John was moaning in his arms and Sherlock really had to wonder why he hadn’t just done this before three years ago.

The only thing that broke his intent to just ravage John for another few hours was the fact that his lover physically couldn’t take it right then. So he forced himself to pull back. “If you insist on being up, get dressed. I will not let Lestrade see you nude.”

John squeaked in a very amusing way, color draining from his face. “Lestrade is here?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly and headed back to the living room, dropping down on the sofa again.

“Sherlock, what was that about?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying to hide his self-satisfied smirk, but he didn’t think he did it very well.

A few minutes later John joined them and Sherlock noted that he used walls and other objects to surreptitiously steady himself. He headed straight for the tea in the kitchen that Sherlock had left for him. “Morning, Greg.”

“Morning? It’s afternoon, John. What, did you go on a bender last night?”

There was a suspicious flush on John’s cheeks that Sherlock found an unreasonable sense of jealousy that Lestrade was there to see…even if he didn’t think the detective observant enough to notice it at the distance between the kitchen and living space. This was why he disapproved of love: it brought so many complications and emotions that he didn’t need. Despite knowing this, he had done a stupid thing anyway by falling in love with John.

“So how are things with you two? Last time you met, I seem to recall it took several people to stop John from killing you and then he wouldn’t talk to you for months.”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise and he shifted. So he had told Lestrade that John had been giving him the silent treatment; Lestrade had asked and he had told the truth…albeit a tad grudgingly. “We’re fine now,” John said after a minute as he warmed up the tea that had gone cold.

“Well, come sit down then.”

There was a heavy pause and Sherlock looked over with interest in how John was going to deal with that question. His lover had paused and he smiled in an almost strained fashion. “I’m fine standing.”

“What’s his problem?” Lestrade asked in an undertone to Sherlock.

As he saw no reason not to, Sherlock answered truthfully, “He can’t sit.”

“Sherlock!”

He blinked at the outraged voice of his partner in the kitchen. “What?” he asked.

“He can’t sit? Why not?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but John beat him to it, “Sherlock, if you answer that question the way I think you are, so help me god…”

Sherlock tried not to look wounded. Why was John refusing to tell Lestrade? Yes, John had always had a problem with others assuming they were lovers long before they actually were, but he hadn’t thought that John would care if it had become truth. Sulkily he watched as John slowly made his way into the living room with as much dignity as he could. He paused at his chair, seeming to take a breath, then continued over to the sofa where Sherlock was reclining, much to his surprise.

“Sherlock and I…discussed some things the other day and…” John paused and Sherlock refused to look at him even when he touched his shoulder. “One thing kind of led to another.”

He blinked as Lestrade looked between them and finally managed to make the connection. He gasped a little and said, “Wait, are you two _dating_ now?!”

“…Yes.”

“Well it’s about time! Even I was starting to have my doubts!”

“…What?” John said after a pause and Sherlock could only start laughing. Apparently the only one that hadn’t known of John’s feelings had been John himself.

“Wait, so the reason you can’t sit down…” He eyed the two of them.

“You assumed our positions would be reversed,” Sherlock supplied and Lestrade had the grace to shrug in admittance. “I suppose I shall be hearing that a lot.”

“So…you don’t have a problem with it?”

Lestrade shrugged at John’s words. “Everyone had already put you two together anyway, just without the sex with the way you denied it. It didn’t help that there was a running tally of how many women you dated and broke up with. It was almost going to reach the twenties. It does explain the trouble sitting…but you’re up late, John. _Sherlock_ was up before you.”

John shifted in embarrassment. “Well…”

“As a doctor he should know he shouldn’t even be standing,” Sherlock interrupted. “Or awake.”

“Awake… When did he go to sleep?”

“Sherlock…” John warned with a dangerous tone in his voice.

“Dawn.” Sherlock ignored him.

“You kept him up _all night_?”

“Yes.”

Even as Lestrade whistled in shock, he ignored his habitually outraged, “ _Sherlock_!” Somehow, he couldn’t be more content.


End file.
